


For the Despairing, Hope

by innocent_until_proven_geeky



Series: Hope In Front Of Me [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Youngling OC, Betrayal, Gen, I know I don't specify in the story that Pova is NB, Non-Binary Youngling OC, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan doesn't deserve all the bad things he gets, Or autistic, Post-Order 66, Pova is NB, and he never specifically asks but still uses they/them, but I want it to be clear that they are, especially being NB because the story is from Obi's pov, just happier than the beginning, oh also the ending isn't exactly happy, so just to be clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23153716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innocent_until_proven_geeky/pseuds/innocent_until_proven_geeky
Summary: Obi-Wan felt his Jedi siblings torn from him.  He knows the heartbreak of betrayal, the pain of a war lost.  He is broken, and can only begin to heal by doing exactly what Obi-Wan was designed to do: help those who cannot help themselves.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker (mentioned), Obi-Wan Kenobi & Yoda (mentioned, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Youngling OC, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CC 2224 | Cody (mentioned)
Series: Hope In Front Of Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679788
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	For the Despairing, Hope

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this work was inspired by my friends over at the Clone Wars Centre discord server. In fact, the prompt for htis is an exchange between one of those friends and me. In the past couple weeks I have become quite close to these guys. I write because I enjoy it, but I continue to publish because they encourage me to.

Obi-Wan’s heart clenched harder with each step. He knew his shoulders and hands shook, but he could do nothing to stop them. The Force writhed with the turmoil of so many deaths, so many flames snuffed out all at once. Battles with heavy casualties were hard enough, but this?

A small part of him ached to build a funeral pyre for the oldest Master down to the tiniest youngling, all cut down in the one place they should have been safe, slaughtered at the hands of those they had once fought alongside. And, something reminded him, the hands of Anakin. His knees buckled beneath him and he grabbed the wall to keep himself standing.

It wasn’t _fair_! The words tried to claw out of his mind, though he knew their childishness. It wasn’t fair. How could this have happened?

How could he have let this happen?

He stumbled again and allowed his body to crumple beneath him. He leaned against the wall and buried his face in his hands, and did not allow himself the luxury of crying. No, he dare not cry now.

Though he knew Master Yoda was alive, searching other areas of the Temple, he couldn’t feel a single life signature. It was as though the Force itself was crying out in the anguish of ten thousand lost souls.

Ten thousand, and the millions more of clones whose very agency had been torn from them.

Obi-Wan could feel nothing but pain, an agony that was separate from the grief he knew would come. No, this torment bordered on physical, bled into his mind and body from the very Force he had sworn himself to.

 _It wasn’t fair_.

He would not cry until his job was done.

He stood, still quaking, muscles and heart screaming in anguish and protest. Just one more desperate task.

His eyes stung and his nose burned, but he blinked the sensations away and held to the wall, keeping himself steady as he stepped over and around the carnage, the bodies of his family and of his comrades. At times, the floor rocked beneath him, his head swaying as nausea distracted him from all other thoughts. It was almost a reprieve, for however brief it was. But then he soldiered on, like he always did, like he always had to.

At least, in the past, he had Cody or Anakin to bear him up, but now even they were gone. A soft sob escaped his throat when he thought of his beloved, and the cruel anger of betrayal stopped any more when he thought of his dear brother.

How could he have let this happen?

Even the most sacred, spiritual rooms of the Jedi Temple were tainted with the misery and the cloud of the great massacre which had occurred. He walked, one painful step after another, through the Room of a Thousand Fountains, through gardens and past open meditation chambers, past the sacred tree in the courtyard, and he felt nothing.

It was not right that he should feel nothing. Not here. Not at _home_.

It wasn’t fair.

He let each stride trace the familiar paths through the Temple as, gradually, he stopped thinking much of anything. To see and to feel were, themselves, harrowing enough ordeals. To think as well was unadulterated anguish.

He let each stride trace the familiar paths through the Temple and yet, when he unconsciously palmed open the door to his quarters, miraculously untouched, he found himself surprised.

Something scuttled away in the depths of the space and Obi-Wan stiffened. So not untouched, then. The Temple wasn’t known for pests, and the thing, whatever it was, was much too large to be one anyway; in the darkness, though, the silhouette seemed far too small and soft to be a clone trooper, and it hadn’t attacked him with a lightsaber when he entered so it quite obviously wasn’t Anakin.

He turned on the light and the little thing cried out, and something that finally wasn’t quite pain, something more like fear, entered his consciousness.

Hiding under Obi-Wan’s bed, cowering and anxious, was a slight Mirialan. Their skin was pink, and they had no tattoos.

Obi-Wan took a moment to speak, and his voice came out in a croak, but eventually, he leaned down and gently said, “Well, hello there, little one.”

The young Mirialan pushed themself farther back into the space under the bed. They trembled worse than Obi-Wan.

He sat down in front of the bed, removed his lightsaber from his belt, and set it to one side, near enough that it could be in his hand in an instant if danger came through the door but far enough that he hoped he was no longer a threat.

At the gesture, the apparent youngling scooted forward a little, then pulled themself back out from under the bed and sat copying Obi-Wan’s position, cross-legged and back straight.

“I’m Master Obi-Wan.” When he spoke this time, his voice was smoother, more soothing. “What’s your name, young one?”

The little Mirialan’s jaw moved as if they were trying to come up with an answer. Their body still shook, and Obi-Wan wished he could reach out into the Force and reassure them, but he couldn’t reach out into the Force for much at all right now. Eventually, though, in a voice no more than a whisper, the tiny person said, “My name is Pova.”

“It is quite nice to meet you, Pova.” Obi-Wan couldn’t keep a minuscule but genuine smile from crossing his lips. “How did you end up here in my quarters?”

Pova’s lips trembled and their body shook. They blinked rapidly and inadvertently backed away from Obi-Wan. After several long, tense seconds, they cried out in a small voice, “I was afraid!” They began rocking, a steady motion that Obi-Wan thought must be soothing. “Am I a bad Jedi?”

Their voice had become so quiet Obi-Wan strained to hear it and had to think for a minute before the words made sense in his head. But when he had processed the question, he smiled, shook his head, and offered his hand to the youngling. “Quite the contrary, little Pova,” he assured the Mirialan. “In fact, I am rather proud of you.”

“But I hid!”

Pova was far less reticent now than they had been only a minute or two earlier, but their obvious shame still ate at Obi-Wan’s heart. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“I hid the whole time,” Pova insisted, dropping their head to look at the hands tucked in their lap, still rocking. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

Obi-Wan offered his other hand to Pova, who seemed to be ignoring the attempts at physical comfort. He left his arms open to the little one, but focused instead on his words. “Yes, you hid. But you survived. Sometimes, the only thing we can do to survive is hide, and surviving even in times like these is worth celebrating. Here you are, with me, and I can take you back to see Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment. He did not want Pova to see the gore or the Temple in shambles. “I’d like you to let me carry you, though.”

Pova shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. “Okay, Master Obi-Wan.”

“Are you sure?”

Pova nodded again. “I don’t like to be touched very much, but I don’t--” they cut themselves off with a small, hiccupping cry “--I don’t want to see.”

“I understand, little one,” Obi-Wan said. He reached out for his lightsaber and clipped it back onto his belt, then stood and lifted Pova into his arms. They were surprisingly light, although from experience carrying younglings he knew that feeling would not last long.

It wasn’t fair. Pova didn’t deserve this; the Jedi didn’t deserve this. He recognized the occasional arrogance of the Jedi, yes, but they didn’t deserve _this_.

Still, for even one youngling to have survived, there was hope.

Obi-Wan’s heart clenched harder with each step, but his shoulders no longer shook.


End file.
